


Passion and Parturition

by followingyourbliss



Category: Garrow's Law
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followingyourbliss/pseuds/followingyourbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the waning weeks of March, the impending arrival of Sarah and William’s child brought with it a great tumult of feeling, no less so for the expectant father than for the mother-to-be. As Sarah had experienced the entire process not long before, she was relatively assured on the subject of childbearing. This could not be said for Will, who was awaiting the event with equal parts impatience and trepidation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call the Midwife

In the waning weeks of March, the impending arrival of Sarah and William’s child brought with it a great tumult of feeling, no less so for the expectant father than for the mother-to-be. As Sarah had experienced the entire process not long before, she was relatively assured on the subject of childbearing. This could not be said for Will, who was awaiting the event with equal parts impatience and trepidation.

Not that he could give over the whole of his days to waiting. After a successful term in Cornwall, he was indispensable at the Old Bailey once again. The influence of The Honorable Charles James Fox now insured that William’s irregular private life was regarded as a fashionable eccentricity, and society at large had recognized that whatever faults existed in the man’s domestic arrangements, Mr. Garrow was nevertheless the best advocate money could buy. Any moral objections tended to disappear when a client’s life was at stake, and Garrow was the only thing that stood between him and the gallows. 

But when Will had an idle moment in Sarah’s presence (and in the last weeks he scarcely spent a free minute away from her), his thoughts invariably turned to the upcoming birth. He had read on the subject extensively, but this knowledge, rather than inspiring confidence, had instead produced the opposite effect. As a result, he had become quite preoccupied with Sarah’s diet and exposure to noxious smells, and would read out relevant quotes from _The Compleat Physic_ about the effect of heating foods or the proper amount of fish the expectant mother should eat. Depending on her mood, and how sensible the advice, Sarah might follow these instructions, politely ignore them, or take pains to defy them as soon as they were uttered, causing William great consternation until he saw that she came to no harm. 

Once, while pouring over diagrams of parous wombs with one hand to Sarah’s belly, he had declared with alarm that the child’s head was up, and that this would be an unfavorable position for delivery. Sarah had been therefore required to talk him away from consulting with a surgeon, reassuring him that there was still time for the baby to shift.

“Moreover, Will, that was not its head.”

And then she had merely chuckled and continued in her book, leaving him to wonder what part of his child’s anatomy he had been palpating.

It was perhaps inevitable that he should not be as unconcerned as other expectant fathers, for whom ignorance conferred bliss, or that faith in benevolent Providence or their own good fortune would win out over the inherent dangers of childbirth.

William could not take part in these rituals of self-delusion. Not a fortnight would pass in which he was not called to defend a maid accused of infanticide. It was his duty, therefore, to explain that this or that thing had gone wrong, to convince the jury that so many infants never drew breath, that they were born at peace almost as often as not. So regularly had he made this case, and made it well, that ofttimes he forgot to account for the presence of a fourth when discussing future plans with Sarah. So convinced was he by his own oratory, that at times he could not truly believe there would be a child at the end, one who, like Samuel, would live and grow under their care. 

Will took great pains to conceal the greater part of these anxieties from her, but on one occasion, he could not do so. He had, perhaps foolishly, taken the case of a surgeon who had made himself _persona non grata_ with the well-heeled clientele he once served. There had been a series of deaths of patients under his care, and the families of these patients, having heard of the recent mortality rate in his caseload, brought charges against him.

“These numbers do appear quite suspicious,” William had told him, holding a view at arm’s length. “You appear to be singularly unfortunate.”

“The misfortune is all my clients’,” Surgeon Giffords had answered.

“You confess culpability?”

“If I had seen to them or no, the result would have been the same…I refer to the misfortune that I am living and they are dead, sir.”

Two of these patients had been laboring women, along with their infants. William had familiarized himself with Mr. Pinnock’s thorough investigation notes, which recalled in painstaking detail the complications that had arisen from each birth.

Mrs. Martin’s labor had been protracted, and exhausted, she had been unable to continue any longer. Forceps were called forth, and the boy she was delivered of had been “monstrous large,” while Mrs. Martin herself was described as “rather below the middle size.” The child was stillborn, suffocated before delivery, or so Giffords claimed. “Exhaustion and grief” were given as the reasons for the death of the mother. She had labored for five nights, and on the last of these, had been silent but for a small moan when she was told of her child’s death. She took her last breath soon thereafter. 

The second case was of Lady Longford. She had hitherto been delivered safely of three children, a boy and two girls. During this most recent pregnancy, she had developed dropsy in the sixth month, and in the seventh, had brought birth to a small, premature daughter. The Lady had lingered on for several days, going blind and increasingly mad, before succumbing. The daughter had been tenacious of life, but would not take to nurse. She was buried two weeks after her mother.

There had been some speculation in the latter case that Lady Longford had been brought to bed of a child too soon after the birth of the last. She had not yet fully recovered, and being as she was of gentle blood, she of course would be sensitive to the rigors of childbearing.

“In these hunting families one sees it constantly,” Surgeon Giffords had said. “The master will take greater care with the breeding of a prized bitch – God forbid the animal be unduly taxed with the whelping of too many pups. Yet with a wife, they remove the newborn to a wetnurse, and I am recalled in three or four months to confirm the growth of yet another tender branch on the family tree. If only one of their two daughters had been another son! Then Lord Longford would have had the heir and the spare he wanted, and the lady might have escaped his attentions, for I am assured he does keep a mistress.”

Will was not certain how well he liked Giffords after this speech, but it could scarcely escape his notice that all the reasons given for why these women perished applied in Sarah’s case.

“Below the middle size” was a considerably understated description of his lady love. When they read together of an evening, sometimes Sarah would take hold of his hand with an enigmatic smile, never taking her eyes from her page. He could not help, however, but pause in his book, and note the great disparity between them. Their hands sometimes seemed to him to belong to different species. There was no denying that Sarah, however large a presence she projected, however colossal a role she played in his life, was very small indeed. Easily clearing six feet in height himself, Will was troubled by the idea that he too was quite “monstrous large,” especially in comparison to her, and that there was a strong chance the child he had begotten on her would also be so.

Sarah, like Lady Longford, was also of gentle blood. Will was not sure he held with such notions, and nothing he had seen of her would indicate she was not as strong and capable as any woman, but it still vexed him to think upon.

And finally, she too, had fallen pregnant very soon after Samuel’s birth. Her son had still been a babe in arms when they conceived, and Sarah only just recovered from her first lying-in. 

When the jury did acquit Giffords of any wrong-doing, finding Will’s remarks eminently persuasive, he could only endure so much of Mr. Pinnock’s congratulations and the surgeon’s gratitude before he fled the court to seek the reassurance of Sarah’s company.

She immediately guessed at the cause of his distress, and kindly teased him about the perversity of being so displeased by winning, while Samuel whined and tugged on his hands, demanding to be tossed into the air as usual.

“Sometimes I cannot believe,” William said, heaving the boy upward, “that he...came out of you.”

Sarah laughed. “Well, he has grown somewhat since then!”

“Yes, but...” Will put Sam down for a moment. “Although Sir Arthur is not a small man, I am taller still.” 

She nodded sagely. “Ah. There is a... _charming_ little saying I have heard before on this very subject,” she said. “‘A mare will throw her own.’” She smiled mischievously, and ran her fingers down the length of his sleeve. “No matter the size of the stallion.”

He knew she was attempting to cheer him by flattery, but he could not help but think of Surgeon Gifford's own words on the subjects of wives and husbandry.

“But you are not a horse or a dog, or an animal of any kind!”

She smirked. “I am gratified to hear you say so.”

He continued, still vexed, “I cannot find relief in assurances about the breeding of this or that beast of burden. I am not a farmer; we are not speaking of livestock.” His hand made a sharp, rebuffing gesture. “There is no comparison.”

She put her arms around his waist and leaned into him, rocking to and fro like she rocked her son. “Will, I know it is not the same. I only meant to acquaint you with the facts. I am in good health, and I have given birth before, without incident, to a healthy child of ordinary size. There is no reason to fear for me or for our child.” 

Will sighed and put his arms around her. “You must do all the work and endure all the pain, and yet I burden you further with my worries,” he said softly.

“You do not burden me,” she said. “Unless by excessive quotations from _The Compleat Physic_.”

“I am not citing dangers you would not wish to think on? Have you no fears of your own?”

The moment he said the words he remembered her tendency to sleepwalk in times of distress. There had been a night not long before when he woke and espied her at the kitchen window, her expression glassy. He had gone to her and taken her hands, gently guiding her in the direction of the bed, but she had hesitated, and looked unseeingly around the room.

Will had brought her to where Samuel lay sleeping, had pressed her hand to her own belly, and had whispered his assurances to her that the children were safe, that no one would take them from her. He knew what haunted her nightmares.

“Of course I do,” Sarah said, taking his hand. “No woman approaches the birth of a child without some fear.” She shrugged. “If nothing else, of pain,” she said, “as that is the one thing we all of us can be certain of.”

Will’s brow furrowed, but his tone was light. “If by this you mean to lessen my feelings of self-reproach...” 

She laughed. “It is difficult to explain, Will,” she said. “how that is all forgot the moment they lay your child in your arms. Even when they grow up and hang from your limbs like little monkeys, you still think yourself blest. Is that not so, my treasure?” 

Sarah spoke this last to her son, who was indeed attempting to climb up his mother’s skirts without success.

Will smiled and shook his head while swinging Sam up into the air, anxieties temporarily banished by the peal of laughter elicited from the small boy, and the thought of the coming little one who might be equally delightful. 

He did not have long to live with these worries, regardless. April dawned, and a week passed. Each day the event was expected, and each day it did not happen. Sarah’s belly lowered, and she surmised that it would be soon, but to both parties, it felt unending. Will because of anticipation, and Sarah, on account of her gestational uticarias, difficulty in carrying out most tasks with such a cumbersome frame, and the general discomfort of having a fully grown infant usurping space from her vital organs.

“I do not know, Will,” she answered wearily, when he asked her for the dozenth time which day _precisely_ she thought the event would occur. “The decision is hardly mine to make.”

As they got further into the month, and the signs of spring began to bud everywhere about town, Sarah too, began to show signs of her time being near. 

Then, by some fashion, William began to be quite certain that the child would arrive on the Thirteenth. It was the anniversary of his birth, and the neatness of his child’s birthday being the same as his own was impossible to deny. Knowing that he had no proof of this, he did not speak this notion - this wish - aloud to Sarah. He did drop enough hints, however, that she could not fail to imagine this was his wish.

“If only the feast days had been arranged thus when I was born.” he began, “For the Thirteenth of April falls on Good Friday this year. It was only an ordinary Sunday for me.”

Sarah gave a knowing smile. “Is not Friday's child ‘full of woe?’ And on the day of Our Lord's death, no less. It seems ill-omened to me.”

“That may be so,” he shrugged. “Out of interest, which day’s virtue has a claim on you?” 

"Can you not tell?" she asked, drawing her arms around her expansive middle. “Am I not the very picture of it at this moment?”

Will shook his head. Sarah pulled on his waistcoat to kiss his lips. 

“A Tuesday. Full of grace, my bonny, happy, wise, and gay Sabbath-day love.” 

The end of Holy Week marked the beginning of a fortnight recess between Hilary and Easter terms, during which no trials would be heard. If the baby did come when Will hoped, he would have the entirety of this recess to devote to the care of Sarah and the children. A glorious beginning to Eastertide filled William’s imaginings.

Before he departed for the Bailey on the morning of Maundy Thursday, Will left strict instructions to Sarah and her stretched and gravid belly that on no account should birth take place that day. Sarah had waved him off dismissively and rolled over in bed, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep. In these last few days, he had noted, she had not found him as amusing as she once had. She was weary of being great with child, and her temper, short. Both parties complied, however, and William returned from the last court session and counted no additions to their household.

The next day, Good Friday, he woke, less interested in counting another year of his own life than welcoming the new one. Sarah and Samuel slept late, and he tidied the rooms, preparing for the birth that would surely take place. But when Sarah arose, it was to kiss and embrace him, to wish him a happy birthday, and then to busy herself in the kitchen with flour, yeast and sugar. She showed not the least inclination to have him fetch the midwife. Will went over to lend his assistance, asking what she was making, curious about the spices in one bowl and currants in another.

“Never you mind,” she said with a secretive smile, shooing him away. “You must be patient.”

Will was feeling less patient than he had ever been in his life, and as he had nothing else with which to occupy himself, Samuel became the recipient of his restless energy. As soon as the boy woke, he had his papa to lift him up and dress him, to toss and dandle him, and to convey him everywhere in the room he wished to go. They played all his favorite games that morning. Will proved an uninspired playmate, however. His attention was all the time divided between Sam’s frolics and Sarah’s movements. Each time her hand went to her belly, each sigh or groan as she kneaded dough, made Will’s head swivel on its hinges, forgetting all at once to be the fearsome wolf, or to jostle Sam on his knee.

Finally, after Sarah caught Will staring at her yet again, Samuel attempting to catch Will’s eye as he sat on his papa’s motionless leg, she spoke. 

“William, have you ever heard the saying ‘a watched pot is slow to boil?’”

His eyes flicked past her to the range. “Pardon?”

She strode over to him and planted a kiss on his forehead, smoothing his hair. His hands went where they always did of late, and he nuzzled her at the level of her navel.

“Will?”

“Hmm?”

“Go.”

His brow furrowed as he looked up at her. “Go where?”

“Anywhere. From my sight. Just... _go_ ,” she said, turning back to her baking, a trace of humor rounding out the impatience of her statement.

He was reluctant, but there was something firm and imperious in her manner, so he did as he was bade. Samuel was lured away with the promise that they might look for hares in the park. The two then departed posthaste, though Will did sneak in one last peek at Sarah's midsection, frowning when the child showed no signs of making an appearance. 

So it was that two hours later Will returned clutching a basket of provisions, with Samuel sleeping against his shoulder.

They were greeted by a far more cheerful Sarah, who had not altered form one jot, and seemed in no rush to do so. She carefully peeled the bleary-eyed boy from Will as he set down the basket and surreptitiously pocketed a paper-wrapped item from its hiding place beneath the eggs. 

“I cannot grant what I think is your fondest wish, but I thought perhaps this might do for now,” she said, and moved from the table to reveal a plate of cross-buns, still piping hot from the oven.

“You made these?” Will said, touched.

“Well I dared not try my hand at birthday cake,” she said. “And it is tradition.”

Samuel had woken up properly now at the scent of cinnamon and was looking fixedly at the sweetmeats. He seemed to credit this a far better present to return home to than a new baby.

Will leaned over and kissed her on the temple. “You do too much. You should be resting.”

“And so I shall!” she said, heaving herself and Samuel into her chair. “Now that this is done.”

Samuel reached out to take a bun, but Sarah pulled his hand back. “Not yet. It's Papa's birthday, so he must have the first taste.”

“We shall share it, Sam,” said Will, sitting down opposite. “First you kiss the cross.” He demonstrated, and held out the bun for Samuel, who obliged with a kiss of his own. “Then, we break the bun, and say, ‘Half for you and half for me, Between us two shall goodwill be.’”

Samuel appeared entranced by this ritual, and did not seem to mind anymore that he had to wait to taste the sweet, nor that his mama's lap had been thoroughly taken over by her expansive middle and he was obliged to perch uncomfortably at the end of her knee. 

Will passed the half to Samuel, and locked eyes with Sarah, smiling.

“And Mama has the little one in her belly to share with, so she must eat a whole one.”

Samuel turned and patted her gently. “Baby,” he said in a soothing voice. 

Will and Sarah had explained as best they could about the little brother or sister inside his mother, but at first had only been met by Samuel’s blank stares. After a few days of pondering, however, he had put his ragdoll up the front of his gown and pointed at it, then at his Sarah’s belly, and that was that.

“Yes,” said Sarah, kissing her bun. “I must hope this child holds me in much goodwill, especially in the coming days.”

Will’s smile faltered, thinking of the next days with still no birth in sight. He hid his disappointment by taking a bite of his bun. The taste of cinnamon and sugar and nutmeg melted together with perfect harmony in his mouth.

“Mmm, these are very good!” he said at once, and took another bite. 

Sarah grinned. “Oh ye of little faith. While it may have been deemed unseemly to teach me how to prepare jugged hare, or most anything else useful, I did learn something of sweets. They are satisfactory?”

“Indeed, I should say so,” Will laughed. “What is your opinion, Sam?” 

Samuel had already dispatched his portion, pried another bun from the plate, and attempted to it tear in half, leaving his fingers a sticky, pastry covered mess. He nodded happily, his mouth too full to make a reply.

The dish thus judged a success, the three made quick work of the rest, and all that remained were crumbs sticking like glue to the kitchen table.

“No rest for the weary,” Sarah said, and attempted to haul herself and Samuel out of the chair.

Will was quicker, and had sprung from his seat and taken the child out of Sarah’s lap before she could stand.

“Come Samuel,” he said looking pointedly in her direction, “We shall clean up together, for Mama should be resting.”

“But it is your birthday!”

“If I wanted to laze about on this day,” Will rejoined, “I should have had more foresight those nine months ago.”

Later, as night fell, Samuel dozed peacefully, the effects of so much sugar having finally worn off. Will dressed for bed, watching Sarah apply her dandelion root liniment, and felt that familiar welling of affection that occurred whenever he looked upon her, most especially in her present condition.

“I did not say before. Thank you for today.” 

She glanced up, closing the jar, and putting it on the bedside table. “I know you are disappointed, Will.”

He did not speak at first. “Not in you. Never in you.”

Sarah sighed, and held out her hand for him to join her. Will scooted into bed and put his arm about her, and she rested her head against his chest. 

“You must accustom yourself to your child disobliging you,” she said. “It is only the beginning, I am sure. Besides...it could be a week yet, even two or three.”

Will groaned. “How could you bear it?”

“It is likely less,” she said with a smile. “But anyway, are you so eager to share my attentions?”

He ran the backs of his fingers along her bare arm. “Never,” he whispered. 

“Well you must,” she said. “And I yours.”

Will reached to tilt her chin, his fingers playing delicately along her skin as he kissed her. He supposed he could wait just a little longer.

Holy Saturday passed quietly and without event. Samuel felt slightly unwell, no doubt due to the large quantities of cake he’d ingested the day before, and thus clung to them all morning. It was a gray and drizzling, and in the afternoon it stormed, and nobody felt like venturing outside. So they read a little, and played at cards and dominoes, after which they built towers from them which Samuel took great pleasure in knocking down fifty or sixty times.

On Easter Sunday, Will awoke to find Sarah, most peculiarly, out of bed before him. Quietly he padded into the kitchen and found her seated there, in her peignoir, dyeing eggs with madder.

“What time is it?” he said, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Quarter until six o’clock,” she whispered, after glancing at the mantle.

Will came around to stand behind her chair and surveyed the work.

“What on earth are you doing awake at this hour?” he murmured in her ear, kneading her shoulders between his fingers and thumbs.

“As you see,” she said, relaxing into his hands.

“Dyeing eggs for Easter.”

“Mrs. Thwaite is taking all the children to go see a Mummers’ Play and then Pace Egging, and I did promise Samuel he would have some red ones for the purpose. They are supposed to be brown – boiled in onionskin, but he would insist on red.”

“Surely it can wait until there is more light out,” Will said, carefully kneeling beside her in his long nightshirt, and then putting his arms about her.

“No, I’m afraid it won’t.”

“Why not?” he said, resting his chin on her arm.

“Because I will be too preoccupied with other matters to do it later.”

Will frowned. “You are surely not planning on attending Matins in your condition?”

“No, Will,” she laughed. “I’ve started.”

“Started?” he said, looking at the eggs. “It appears you’ve almost finished.”

He looked back to Sarah. She was rubbing her belly, grinning with high amusement at him. She reached out to gently nudge the tip of his nose.

William shot up, nearly ripping his nightshirt in the process.

“You’ve started? It’s happening?”

She nodded, placing the last egg on a rag to dry. “I cannot think why you are so surprised. Is this not what you were so impatient for?”

Will grinned, his hands flying to his hair. He turned this way and that, looking around the kitchen.

“What am I to do?” he said finally.

“You can go back to bed if you wish, it will be some time –”

“‘Go back to bed?’ Are you mad?” he said.

“In that case, you can take these over there, and then help me up from this chair. And hush; Samuel is still asleep.”

Hurriedly he took the dyed eggs out of the way, and then helped Sarah from her chair, beaming from ear to ear.

“There’s no prospect of disturbing him. Not unless we employ cannon fire. But should we not wake him? We should ready him for our neighbors…”

“Yes; but there is no hurry, Will. This will take some time. They may even be false labor pains.”

Try as she might, Sarah could not convince him that haste was needless, and that all preparations were in hand. As soon as the youngest Thwaites’ voices could be overheard from the rooms below, Will dressed himself and a half-sleeping Samuel, and packed the child and his things off to their fellow tenants. The cheers the family gave at Will’s tidings reached Sarah’s ears and brought a smile to her face – at least until another wave of pain hit her squarely in the back.

William returned at once, bounding back up the stairs, sounding like the movements of heavy cavalry. He threw open the door, breathlessly relayed the message of goodwill from their neighbors, and upon seeing the evidence of her suffering, absorbed himself completely in her well-being and progress. The ache passed, but all Sarah’s encouragements to sit and becalm himself were ignored. He strode around their rooms aimlessly, inspecting the state of the baby linen, trying to recall if he had left adequate instructions with the Thwaites over Samuel’s care.

“They have seven children, William. Some confidence must be bestowed.”

Will was persuaded. But peace of mind did not follow on all accounts, for he seemed more determined than ever to fret. Sarah sighed and ventured that he may as well advise George and Louisa of her indisposition.

“I shall tell Mr. Pinnock, and he shall have to tell Ms. Calderon, for I have not the time to find them both. I could not leave you for so long.”

“It is no great inconvenience. I am certain you will find them both at Drury Lane.”

“But…it is not yet seven on a Sunday morning. Ms. Calderon will not be…” Will began. He stopped, and then looked at Sarah shrewdly.

“You mean not the theater, but her lodgings?”

Sarah raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

“No,” said Will. “You imagine too much.”

“If I am wrong, I will admit it at once, but own at least that you did see what passed between them when we dined together last.” 

“I will admit that there were many meaningful looks exchanged, and there exists a partiality between them…”

Sarah laughed. “‘A partiality!’”

Will joined her, shaking his head, and bending down to kiss her brow, “To be sure, George is a fair way in love with her, but it doesn’t signify anything.”

Sarah took hold of his hand. “Go to Drury Lane. See if I am mistaken. And after, pray call on the midwife. You may find her and her daughter at this address.” She pressed a scrap of paper into his palm. “Unless they are already gone to services, for I know not when they do go about it…”

Will’s eyes widened at the last, and he hastened to gather his hat and coat. Sarah declared that she certainly could bear the wait until after the women had celebrated their holy day, but William was fixed on his purpose. He kissed her lips, laid a hand to her belly, and let out a nervous chuckle.

“I shall return without delay,” he whispered, not taking his eyes off her until the final moment.

“Oh, but Will?”

He turned at the door, his hair swinging over his shoulder.

She hesitated. “It’s only that the midwives…they know of me by a different name.”

“A different name?”

“It was simply…easier that way.”

Will remained where he was, hand on the door, attempting to conceive of an easier name than ‘Sarah.’

She was blushing furiously, not meeting his eye. “So if it is not too much to ask, I would be obliged if you would not correct them when they call me… ‘Mrs. Garrow.’”

There was no prospect of hiding the smile that stole over his face then.

Sarah snuck a glance up, and shook her head at his expression. 

“Away with you, now. You are wearing the floorboards thin from all your pacing.”

Will quitted the room, but stuck his head around the door to say, “You would still be Lady Sarah. The precedence due to your rank would not alter.”

“The idea is to be inconspicuous as well as disguise the fact that we are not married, William.”

“But if we did…”

“You have given this some thought,” she laughed.

“Yes. I have,” he replied seriously. Then he was gone.


	2. Labor of Love

In less time than Sarah thought possible, Will returned, finding her now pacing about the bedroom with her hands against the small of her back. He brought with him Mrs. Mendes, a midwife of considerable experience, and her newly married daughter, Mrs. Franks, who had been apprenticed to her since girlhood.

“Ah, Mrs. Garrow. How do you fare?” the elder midwife inquired upon entering the room.

“Well enough, I suppose,” Sarah replied, just as much to Will as to the midwife. “Given the circumstances. But I am not interrupting your prayers?”

“Oh no. Exceptions for the sick and laboring always,” Mrs. Mendes said, taking stock of the dimensions and appointments of the room as Mrs. Franks prepared the bedclothes. “You look well. And you have had a child before, unless I am mistaking you for another?”

“No, you are not mistaken.”

“Excellent. Then you shall know what to expect. I will check your progress, and then if all is well, administer the purgative.”

Sarah said she understood, and looked to Will. “Well?”

He stared at her blankly for a few moments. Then he smiled, and nodded.

“Louisa sends her very best wishes. She all but thrashed me at the door to her apartments, so overcome with joy was she at the news. She said if it’s another like Samuel she shall brave your cooking and visit us as often as she is able.”

Sarah put her hand to her heart, but then looked to him to continue. 

He sighed, and came nearer to whisper in her ear.

“I did hear a rustling from within…”

Sarah wore an expression of mock surprise. “Go on.”

Will made several wordless gestures, shifting his posture every time. Finally he relented. “I believe him, when he says that it was not as it appeared.”

“To be sure,” she replied brightly.

“Mr. Pinnock said,” Will told her, “that she was made low by invectives hurled at her by a few drunk patrons of her latest production, and that he merely wished to provide comfort in her distress.”

“I’ll bet he did.”

“Sarah!”

“That was all I needed to know,” she answered airily, “Now Will, you must go. There are things that our guests need to do before this business can get underway.”

Will glanced over his shoulder at the two midwives. Mrs. Franks, no more than twenty, had a round, olive-complected face that seemed kindly. She was busy with the linens and instruments. He eyed them warily, hoping that none would be called for in Sarah’s case. Mrs. Mendes, an auburn-haired woman of five or six and forty, had sleeves pushed up to reveal clean hands and muscular forearms. She met Will’s gaze, clearly waiting for him to leave before she proceeded.

Will turned back to Sarah. “Is there anything I can get for you? Anything you wish for?”

She considered. “I am not allowed so many things during this time.”

“I will not tell if you won’t,” he said, conspiratorially.

“I _have_ been craving something sweet,” she said, smiling. “With Samuel, there was a bowl of cherries I made quick work of. But they are not in season now.”

Will put his hand up and began to back out of the room. “Say no more. Your wish is my command.”

“Don’t be absurd, Will! There won’t be any until July!”

But he had already bowed at the waist and bid the room adieu.

He returned within the half hour, and produced a pottle of strawberries from behind his back with a flourish. 

“I come bearing gifts,” Will said “Shall I feed them to madam?”

Sarah fixed him in a look, swaying back and forth with both hands pressed firmly in her back. She raised her eyebrows. “Be careful, sir; I may take you up on that offer.”

“Yes, by all means. Only you must be quick about it,” said Mrs. Franks.

“Why, is it to start soon?” Will asked eagerly. “The, uh…central occasion, as it were?” He mimed vaguely between his legs. “The crowning?”

Both midwives frowned at this coarseness.

Sarah just chuckled. “No, it will be some time before that. But the throws will be upon me soon, and you will wish to leave before they become too great.”

Will started. “But—but I had not planned to do so.”

She regarded him for some moments. Finally, sounding incredulous, “You wish to stay? Through all of it?”

He shrugged. “Yes, if you do not object.”

Mrs. Franks shook her head. “Men have no place in the business of childbirth. Their presence always provokes distress in the lady, and keeps us from well seeing to her.”

“But there would be no business of childbirth without men!” Will replied.

Mrs. Mendes arched a sharp brow at him. Sarah looked to the ceiling of their dwelling with a sigh.

“Is that so, _barrister_?” said Mrs. Mendes. “If that be the case, then surely women should sit on juries and hold the judge’s gavel, for there would be no business of law without mothers to make defendants and prosecutors.”

“Quite right. And when such is the case, I shall rejoice,” he said, prompting bewilderment from the two midwives and an amused shake of the head from Sarah. He spoke again, “I mean only that there _are_ men – physicians and surgeons and the like, who are learned in the field of obstetrics.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Mendes, “But you, I believe, are not one of them?”

“What knowledge a barrister finds in his possession may surprise you,” Will countered. “I only wish to be of use to Sarah in whatever way I may. And, I must beg pardon for any rudeness, ladies, but should not the decision rest with her?”

He caught Sarah’s eye, smiled, and then nodded. “As long as I do promise to stay out from underfoot, and do not provoke any more distress in the lady.”

Sarah grinned and gestured that he should come closer, and he did so, taking hold of her elbows and leaning down to her so that they would not be overheard. The midwives received this message and busied themselves with preparations, speaking privately to one another.

“You wish to be of use? Is that your only reason to stay?” Sarah said.

“I will also admit to a curiosity,” said Will. “I have seen something of birth before, but it is still an area I have little understanding of.”

“And I am here only to serve your edification?” she said, sounding vexed.

“No,” he said, exasperated. “I wish to be present because it is the birth of my child, and because you may require comfort in your labors, and I wish to provide that because I adore you. Is that so very strange?”

She looked touched by this speech. “Yes, it is rather. Most men are glad to have as little experience of it as possible, especially as it involves women in very…compromised circumstances. I know this will be of little matter to you,” she said with affection, tweaking his waistcoat button, “but birth is considered unseemly.”

“Well if it is not too unseemly for His Majesty George the Third – if he should think it necessary to be present and witness the births of all the little princes and princesses, then why should I not do the same for our child?”

His voice was now loud enough to distract the two midwives from their discourse, but they only looked slightly contemptuous and amused by the suggestion of a comparison between Mr. William Garrow and the King of England.

Sarah, still swaying, took one of his hands.

“You must not be over-excited. They will make you leave for certain.”

Will glanced at them and took a deep breath before continuing in a whisper. “I will be a ruin if I am made to wait elsewhere. I do not think I can bear…hours of not knowing how you fare. And do not even speak of finding something else to occupy my mind. I will be too distracted.”

Sarah stroked his side in reassurance. “I will be well, William” she said. She smiled at him, but then grimaced as another wave of pain came upon her. “…though it may not seem so at times.” She gritted her teeth and glanced up into his eyes, which were contracted in sympathy. “You would not rather be elsewhere when I am…like this? Truly?”

“Truly,” said Will, putting his hands to her shoulders tentatively, concern shining forth in his features. “If you do not mind.”

She paused, waiting for the worst of it to pass. “I…I do not.”

“You sound surprised?”

“Well…Arthur did not offer, certainly,” she said in a whisper. “But even if he had, I would never have wanted him there. With you I feel so differently.”

Will smiled, rubbing her shoulders. “Tell me what you would have me do.”

So she did. If she had a sudden desire for the taste of strawberries, he was there, ready to place one between her lips. If she felt hot, he placed a damp cloth to her brow and neck. He was mindful to stay out of the way of the midwives, as they went about their business, and did not even flinch when Sarah vomited after a particularly fierce labor pain overtook her.

“I’m sorry, Will,” she mumbled. “All that lovely fruit.”

“Nevermind,” he said, stroking her sweaty hair back from her forehead. “They were too early and sour as lemons.”

He laughed, and then Sarah did too, admitting, “Yes, they were, rather.” 

At times she would request his assistance without saying a word. She would take his hand and push it firmly against the small of her back, groaning. He learned quickly that it was not possible to press too hard, that the intensity of her pangs needed to be met with an equal pressure against them. During those moments he felt gratified that at least he could do that for her, glad that he could bring her some measure of relief.

At other times, try as he might, he could not bring her even a small bit of comfort. He would assist her into a different position when the one before it had proven unbearable, but each one would feel more excruciating than the last. He could only stand by helplessly, stroking her hand as her pains overwhelmed her, and she curled into a ball, silent tears rolling down her face. Sarah was in an almost constant state of change – sitting, lying in the bed on one side or the other, walking about the room, swaying, rocking, or kneeling with her arms and chest stretched out on the bed, her hips rolling from side to side.

The last of these did not appear comfortable to Will, but Sarah seemed to find it so. So too did she find comfort by throwing her arms over his shoulders and pressing her forehead to his chest, leaning into him. They found themselves thusly several times. Will would knead her back or stroke her hair and whisper an encouraging word or two as they swayed together.

And so it went for two hours, the interval between her pangs decreasing, and the intensity of them increasing.

As for Sarah’s manner towards him, Will was surprised by how quickly she could change from outpourings of gratitude and tender feelings to making perfectly plain he could be of absolutely no use to her or anyone, and then back again.

The first time she had pushed him away in the midst of her throws, he had compounded the problem by attempting to ingratiate himself again, first by an amusing remark, and when that was met with a stony silence, by offering to comfort her in various ways.

“Sarah, would you like a glass of water?” he had repeated softly when, after every other question had been answered with a curt shake of her head, she had not answered his last..

“No, for God’s _sake_ , Will!” she had said, staring daggers at him from her place hunched over the floor, before howling once more in pain. 

Quickly he did learn that in those moments, the greatest gift he could give her was silence.

Before long Mrs. Mendes decided it would be best to check her progress. She put her hands up Sarah's skirt, turning away to protect the modesty of her charge. Sarah grimaced and made a low noise in her throat as the midwife went about the business. It was all over quickly. She turned to them both with an impressed look on her face.

“You're there, my dear Mrs. Garrow! It should be time soon to push.”

William thought the wait had been interminable, but the midwives and Sarah both assured him that it had progressed unusually fast.

A peculiar look passed between the two midwives as they said this, but Sarah clasped his hand, her face shining forth with exertion and elation.

“We shall have an Easter Sabbath child, Will,” she said. “Now, is that not auspicious?”

He smiled and nodded, then let out a loud breath, rubbing her hands between his. “I can scarce believe it.”

This was followed by a short interval during which Sarah’s pangs were mercifully absent. The midwives called it the “rest and be thankful” stage. 

“I am. Oh, I am,” Sarah replied. “I did not have this with Samuel.” 

However, sooner than she had hoped, the labor pains returned, doubling and trebling in intensity from before. 

The midwives arranged the necessary implements, placing the birthing stool, laying out much linen, and pouring water into a basin.

Another pang came upon Sarah as she paced, and she moaned loudly, bracing her hands against the wall. Will came up behind her and rubbed her back, as she stuck out her hips and hunched down, groaning long and low.

Her head shot up at once, as she gave a cry more startled than pained. She looked to Will. Her face was sorrowful, apologetic. She turned to the midwives.

“The head is out!” she squeaked.

Mrs. Mendes’ eyes widened, but her voice was business-like.

“No, my dear, surely it is not. It can feel that way...” she said, bustling over to Sarah, “but I shall take a look…”

Unlike on previous occasions, she dispensed with ceremony, and flipped up Sarah’s skirts without turning her head. She peeked under.

Slowly, she looked up to Sarah’s frantic eyes, her eyebrows raised. “Well, this birth will not progress like your first one, that much is certain!” Mrs. Mendes looked pointedly at her daughter. “Esther, hurry now.”

Will’s heart began to pound. He did not understand what was happening, only that Mrs. Franks dropped the pitcher with alacrity, splashing the table, and picked up the linen and scissors.

“Is everything well?” he asked the two women, clutching at Sarah’s shoulders. She was trembling uncontrollably now, though he did his best to soothe her.

Mrs. Mendes’ voice was calm as she squatted down and pushed Sarah’s skirt up even further.

Will gasped.

The head was indeed, _out_.

“Yes,” the midwife replied as Will felt the blood drain from his face. “Very satisfactory. Only this child is in a great hurry and has seen fit to arrive, be we ready or not!”

He did not feel in the least ready now. He stared, transfixed by the sight. But Sarah was reaching for his hand, and he pushed his own fears aside, squeezing it in reassurance.

Mrs. Mendes spoke to Sarah. “Mrs. Garrow, you must not be hasty, though you will wish to be. Do not push until I bid you do so. Do you understand?”

Sarah nodded, sucking air through her teeth. She closed her eyes. Will suspected she could feel every detail of what was occurring, and that was quite enough.

He could not look away, however, as Mrs. Mendes gently rocked the head of the child to one side and slid a finger alongside its neck. Sarah groaned and gripped Will’s hand tightly. The midwife hooked her finger and brought a loop of the navel string over the child’s head while bringing it back to center.

Will was forcibly reminded of Samuel’s mishap. Surely the child could not breathe? He thought of the peculiarly shaped scissors he had demonstrated in court, scissors that he had not seen in the midwives’ possession. All these thoughts came to mind at once in a jumble.

“Is it in danger of the cord?” he blurted out.

Sarah’s eyes snapped open.

“Oh no,” Mrs. Franks said, wiping her mother’s hands with a cloth. “It was only over the poor mite’s shoulder. It would halt delivery, but it is a common enough presentation. Do not distress your wife over fanciful nothings, mind.”

He looked to Sarah to tender an apology, but she was far too distracted to receive it. Though the midwives seemed to be in no hurry, she certainly was.

“Please!” she exclaimed, “It’s coming!”

“Slowly now,” Mrs. Mendes said, her hand pressed against the child’s crown. “Slowly.”

Sarah’s hand gripped Will’s like a vise. She moaned once, and then again, followed by an ear-piercing cry.

And before Will knew it was happening--

There he was.

The midwives gave a congratulatory cheer as the child’s shoulders were delivered, and the rest of him slipped out of Sarah’s body and into the blanket in Mrs. Mendes’ waiting arms.

“Oh, well done!” the midwife said. The baby threw out his limbs haphazardly in the sudden, unfamiliar freedom of the world, seeking security as he was enfolded in the blanket and passed to Mrs. Franks.

Sarah began to sob at once, her head falling back in relief. Will held her, supported her, clung to her, watching in shock as the midwives cut the navel string that connected Sarah to their son.

He turned to look upon her in awe. She was gazing fixedly at the infant as Mrs. Franks whisked him away. 

“Mr. Garrow. If you please,” Mrs. Mendes ordered, motioning with a nod of her head.

Will complied, gently assisting Sarah into the bed. He had imagined she would labor and deliver there. It was difficult to believe that it was all over, that she had already done it. But the proof was lying there upon the table, balling a tiny fist against his cheek, as the midwife prepared a bath of wine for him. 

“You’ve done it,” he said, laughing with amazement, and kissing her temple. “You did so well. So very well.”

“Boy or girl?” she asked Mrs. Mendes.

The midwife looked up from between Sarah’s knees. “I confess I did not look.”

“Boy,” Will answered, moved that he was the first to know. Sarah met his gaze, grinning, and his voice became thick with gratitude for what she had just done. “Our boy.”

“Is he well?” she asked urgently.

“Oh, he’s grand,” Mrs. Franks answered, uncovering the babe and inspecting him up and down.

“He does not cry.” 

“No, not all do. But he’s looking about him, taking everything in. You’ll get a good cry from him when we bathe him no doubt. He won’t like that.”

Will pressed a tender kiss to Sarah’s forehead. “And you, are you well?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, holding his cheek. “But never mind me, go see your son.” He was reluctant to leave her side, but his curiosity was strong enough he needed no more urging.

Reverently, Will approached the table. The baby lay there, naked and disoriented, still bearing a streak of blood and thick white vernix on his back, his fists balled, his arms and legs flexed tightly against his body. He had ten long fingers and ten toes, a birthmark on the side of his left foot, and Sarah’s large, expressive, round eyes. He was absolutely perfect. 

The infant flailed one arm out and whimpered, a nervous, shivery noise, that was followed by a squall as Mrs. Franks picked him up abruptly and began to wash him in a bath of wine.

Will felt a strange tug, an impulse to grab the child away from the source of his distress and hold him close, to warm him against his own skin. It felt to William as if his heart was swelling, would swell out of his breast – as if the entire process of falling in love had been compressed into that one moment, and there wasn't room enough to contain the strength of feeling. He was crying now, the growing pains of his love for this little child - his own baby son - making his chest ache in a terrible way. He brushed the tears from his cheeks with his fingertips, feeling dazed.

As Mrs. Mendes cleaned the blood and fluids from Sarah’s thighs, the new mother beamed serenely at the sound of her infant's cry and craned her neck to see him. She seemed to Will to be just as taken with their child, but not in the least surprised by being so overcome. She had done this before, after all. 

Mrs. Franks toweled off the infant, rubbing him vigorously. He let out a complaining wail, and whimpered again, his chin trembling. She leaned down and kissed him, then licked her lips. At first Will thought this was the midwife being comforting to the little one, but then he recalled the words his grandmother had said when his cousin had been born sickly: “ _Woe to that child which when kissed on the forehead tastes salty. He is cursed and soon must die._ ” The infant’s taste proved satisfactory to Mrs. Franks, however. She wrapped him up snugly, then brought him over to Sarah. 

“Oh hello, my little love!” Sarah sighed, welcoming him into her arms. The babe blinked at her with sleepy eyes, his brow furrowed, as he tried to focus on his mother’s face.

Will gazed down at them both, overwhelmed by how proud he was of her. And how proud of this child now living in the world, uniting his blood inextricably with Sarah’s. 

She chuckled. “Oh ho, he looks _just_ like you!” 

Will sat next to her, peering into the bundle. She was not altogether exaggerating.

Sarah traced her finger lightly down the tiny snub nose, to the long upper lip with its deep groove in the middle, and across a pouting mouth to where it curled up in the corners. The infant’s mouth twitched at the touch. Seeing his own smile on the child’s face, even only as a fleeting reflex, moved Will to joyful tears once more. 

“Aww, my sweet...” Sarah murmured, clearly as captivated by their newborn as he was. She looked up to Will with a sympathetic smile, brushing his wet cheeks with her hands, her own eyes welling.

“You mustn’t. You’ll provoke me too,” she said with a sniffle.

Sarah gazed back down at their son, and laughed as the baby yawned and uncurled a fist. She put her thumb in his palm, and he grasped it tightly.

“Now behold,” she said, still laughing, bringing the hand to Will’s notice. “Is this not yours, exactly?”

He chuckled. It was. His hand, his elongated fingers, in miniature. When God had knitted together this child’s flesh and bone, He had used him as the prototype. 

“Did I have anything to do with you, or are you all your father’s son?” she asked the infant, kissing him on his head, which bore the suggestion of hair, rather than the fact of it. Will was about to bring her attention to the baby’s eyes, which were round as teacups, with clever little arches above. They were most certainly hers. But suddenly Sarah was lifting the child to him.

“Here you are,” she said, pressing him into Will’s arms.

“Oh,” he said, “…I am not certain…”

Before he knew it, the baby was resting in the crook of his elbow, his forearms dwarfing the bundle. Will was shocked at how light the infant was, and adjusted his hold to ensure he held him with just the right firmness. The child whined at all the jostling, but as Will relaxed, so too did he. 

“See? It is no different than with Samuel,” Sarah said, looking extremely satisfied.

“I beg your pardon,” said Will, his voice lowering to a whisper, “But it is very different indeed.”

Sarah just grinned, leaning against his shoulder. She looked pale, but triumphant.

“Oh, but Will, is he not every inch a Garrow?”

“Nay,” Will said, smiling. “There is a stronger resemblance to my mother’s family.”

He stroked the child’s tiny fingers, marvelling. “I only wish she could have seen him.” He leaned down and whispered to the baby in a sing song voice, “Your Grandmama would have said, ‘Ah William, is he not the bonniest wee bairn you ever saw! Aye fairly, he is!’” 

The bonny wee bairn merely furrowed his brow as he fought to stay awake.

Sarah laughed, and then drew in a deep breath, withdrawing from him and shutting her eyes. She was breathing heavily, and it was no wonder, for the midwife was pressing firmly on her abdomen in a manner that did look most painful. Sarah appeared distracted, uncomfortable, and more than a little pale now.

Will looked to the midwives, determined to ask them to be more gentle, or could whatever they were doing not wait until she was more recovered, but something in their faces stilled his voice. They were stony-faced, determined. Neither showed any signs of alarm, but Will was practiced at the art of reading artifice in a countenance. If they were witnesses, he'd have known they were lying. They might be projecting an image of calm, but inside, he knew...inside they were beginning to panic.

His whipped his head around to Sarah’s face, and his heart sank like a stone to see she had blanched. Her brows had knitted together, and she appeared almost green, as if she were about to be sick again.

“Will,” she said, shaking her head, “I don't feel well at all.” With that, she slumped back into the pillows, pale as the sheets.

He grabbed her hand. It was like ice.

“Sarah!”

His eyes flashed to the midwives.

“What is it, what's wrong?”

“You should leave now, while we attend her,” Mrs. Mendes said, coming over to lay a hand to Sarah’s forehead.

“No No NO.”

Sarah’s eyes flickered open. “Shh. I feel very tired,” she mumbled.

“You must be firm with it,” Mrs. Mendes admonished her daughter, and she took her place between Sarah’s knees, taking the navel string in her hands, and twisting and working it side to side. She did not glance at Will's face, but spoke directly at the fear that was blazing from his eyes. “There is nothing you can do. You shall be in the way if you stay. We will do all we can for her.”

He shook his head over and over. He didn’t want them to do all they could. He wanted for Sarah to be well. “No. I will not leave her.”

Mrs. Franks came past, her apron stained red. Will grabbed her wrist.

“Please tell me what’s happened,” he entreated. “Please,” he repeated, when she appeared reluctant, glancing at her mother as she massaged and tugged.

“The labor was too precipitous,” she said with sympathy. 

He could not accept it. Everything had gone so well. It had been so joyful, and now there was confusion and dread, with busy hands and sweating. And blood. He dared not look to see how much, but there was the scent of it in the air, a metallic tang that made him want to vomit. 

He lowered his face to their joined hands, hers so very cold. 

“Please God no,” he whispered. He kissed her clammy forehead, and pushed away the wet hair that was plastered to her skin. “Sarah, stay with me.”

Her eyes fluttered open and closed. She seemed to be trying to heed his request, but found herself unequal to it. Will pleaded with her, begged her, cajoled her. But she was quite insensible. He could not rouse her.

“Sarah,” he implored. “Sarah, you must.”

Before he could give himself over to this grief, Mrs. Mendes was there at his side. She grabbed the child out of his arms, and began to unwrap him from the blankets. As the cold air hit the babe's skin, he woke and let out a piteous cry of unhappiness.

Will instinctively stood up, his hands reaching out for his child. He could not fathom why these women did not concentrate on Sarah and make her well, and now why they were tormenting his poor little son.

“Why do you expose him? There can be no harm in letting him sleep.” A petulant tone crept into his voice. “You should be attending Sarah!”

“She has an imbalance of the humors,” Mrs. Mendes said quickly. “Her womb is too pheglmatic. In cases such as these the child can sometimes draw out the offending substance. If not, she must have a purgative, and then be bled.”

Will shook his head. It was all going too fast. He could not digest it. The midwife had already left his side, taking the whimpering, naked newborn to Sarah.

“Let the baby suckle,” said Mrs. Franks, reassuringly. “He will come to no harm.”

They did not understand. “But that will only weaken her still!”

“No. She will not miss her milk.”

“Here you are, my girl. Here is your hungry babe,” said Mrs. Mendes. With unceremonious haste, she untied the ribbon on Sarah’s nightgown and pulled it down, exposing her. The squalling infant was placed on her breast, and guided by the midwife to nurse. He proved naturally attuned, latching on and suckling vigorously, one hand coming up to rest against his mother’s skin. 

William raked his hands through his hair. He felt so useless standing there while the two midwives worked to stem the flow of Sarah’s blood. The baby still bore the stain of his wine bath, and stood out red on white as he took nourishment from his pale and weak mother. Will shut his eyes to the sight. 

“Perhaps...perhaps I should call for an obstetric surgeon?”

“It is beyond that, sir,” said Mrs. Franks, still massaging Sarah’s belly. “It is up to your wife and to God now.”

He turned away, paced to the window, fruitlessly. He came back, knelt by the bed, grabbed her hand, squeezing. 

“Sarah? Can you hear me?” 

Her eyes fluttered open and Will heaved a gasping sigh.

Sarah looked down, almost in surprise, to see the child suckling at her breast. Her arm came around to cradle him closer, and she seemed to come to herself a bit more, though she did not speak, nor did she open her eyes again.

Mrs. Mendes had her hands to Sarah’s belly, still massaging, still watching her patient’s face for any signs. After what felt like an eternity for Will, the midwife brightened as a sound of annoyance came from Sarah’s throat.

To Will, it was one of the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard. 

“Do you feel that?” Mrs. Mendes asked.

Sarah nodded, her lip curled back in pain.

“That’s very good. Now Sarah,” she said, divesting of protocol. “I want you to look down at your child.”

Sarah did so, her eyes holding slightly more focus now. Something changed in her features; they seemed somehow softer and stronger all in one. Her eyes had dark circles underneath, but they glowed with a warm fire. 

“Look at his face and think of all you would do for his sake. All the pain you have endured, all the months of carrying him safely in your womb, all have come to this moment. You cannot...you _will not_ abandon him now.”

Sarah shook her head, and closed her eyes, her face contorting as another pang came upon her.

“When you feel the pain most keenly, bear down and push. Push and push and push, until you cannot do so any longer.” 

Sarah grabbed Will by his shoulder and began pulling herself upright. He put his arm around her back to prop her up, and Mrs. Franks dashed over to assist on her other side.

Her eyes shut tight, Sarah put her chin down to her chest and let loose a loud groan. Her right arm clutched at the baby possessively as her face turned red with the strength of her pushing. Mrs. Mendes heaved her forearm onto Sarah’s midsection. Will felt as though he might pass out cold, as the midwife’s other hand disappeared, and seconds later, emerged again with a rush of crimson. His first thought was it was too much blood, far too much of Sarah’s blood, and he knew in that moment, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would surely perish from it.

But then Mrs. Mendes sighed with relief, and began examining the thing in her hands. There was blood, certainly, but that was not all. Will then recognized that it was the afterbirth.

“Is it complete?” Mrs. Franks asked.

“’Tis,” replied her mother, rotating it in her hands this way and that, and turning to place it in the basin.

Sarah was leaning heavily on Will, resting her forehead on his arm

“You have done it,” Will whispered to her, not entirely sure it was done, but taking heart that the midwives seemed relieved by it. “Oh Sarah, you’ve done it!”

Sarah smiled weakly as he kissed her.

“She has, has she not?” he asked them.

But Will’s attention was again claimed by Sarah as she gripped his arm tighter and entreated faintly, “Take him!” She was rapidly losing consciousness, slumping further down on the bed.

Despite his horror, Will took their baby from Sarah’s arms so that he would not fall with her. 

Clutching his naked child against him with one arm, he gently lay Sarah head down on a pillow with the other, and turned to the midwives for reassurance. Mrs. Mendes nodded, satisfied with the picture from between Sarah’s legs. 

Mrs. Franks came over to take the child away, but Will only shied away from her, holding the little one tighter.

“Why does she still sleep?” he asked.

“She has been through an ordeal,” said Mrs. Franks. “Your wife has lost a great deal of blood and she needs rest.” 

His breath came in bursts that burned his lungs. “Why? Why did this happen?”

Mrs. Franks gave a small shrug and spoke softly. “An imbalance of humors. The afterbirth would not deliver. It’s over now. You must be calm. For your children’s sake, as well as your wife’s.”

Sarah continued to improve. The two midwives bustled about, applying ointments and herbs to her, and to the infant in his arms, cleaning, taking care of all and sundry. Will did not attend them. His focus was on Sarah. Her breath was steady now, and her color heightened. Her palm against his was not so very clammy as before. He concentrated on stroking her hand, and holding back the tears stinging in his eyes. 

“Would you like one of us to stay and watch over her?” Mrs. Mendes asked, after a while. “There is nothing more to be done, but if you do not think you are able --”

“No, I will watch her,” Will interrupted. He tried not to think of how reminiscent the situation felt to Mr. Southouse’s illness. The same bed, similar words...but it could not be the same outcome. 

It would _not_. 

Mrs. Franks curtsied and quitted the room with their tools, and linens hastily bundled to prevent him seeing how soaked they were with blood. Mrs. Mendes nodded. “Then we will return on the morrow to see to Lady Sarah.”

Will stared ahead blankly, still watching the younger midwife depart. Suddenly, her words registered.

“Lady Sarah? But…”

Mrs. Mendes’ mouth dropped open, and she looked away, chagrined.

“You knew. This whole time,” Will said, confused. “But you did not say.”

Mrs. Mendes gave him a shrewd look, and said lightly, “All of London knows you, Mr. Garrow. You are notorious.”

He stared at her, lost for words.

“You do not think this is the first time we have delivered a child whose identity and circumstances were somewhat…invented? She must have first looked elsewhere for help with delivery, and been turned away. It’s not every day we are asked to deliver the child of a gentile, and a noblewoman no less. But she was in need, and it is not our place to sit in judgment. If it comforted her to be addressed as your wife, then what harm does it do us to pretend?”

William put a hand to his eyes, hiding the tears that were spilling onto his cheeks anew. The thought of Sarah taking comfort in the lie, of it being a necessity to find help in society…it impressed upon him the very large gulf between what he wanted to offer her and what he had ultimately brought her to. 

Bereft of life in a cramped flat, bringing birth to his bastard. A wracking, gasping sob shook through his chest, and he bit his fist to keep back the cry of despair.

Mrs. Mendes’ hand came to rest on his shoulder as she covered the infant in his arms with a blanket. “She is strong, Mr. Garrow. We have every hope that God will spare her to us. You must take courage.”

“You are certain she will live?” he blurted, sounding very young.

She spoke softly. “She has had a trial, I’ll not lie. There was a time there when I feared she was beyond any hope. But her reversal was remarkable. Time, Mr. Garrow. Give her time, and that babe to fight for, and she shall see it through.” 

“You have been so kind to us…” he began.

Mrs. Mendes shook her head. “I have always had a fondness for you Scots. If only for the Declaration of Arbroath…”

“A master of midwifery and history as well,” he laughed through his sobs. 

She smiled. “I jest with you. You defended my brother-in-law, Isaac Norsa. The tobacconist from Aldgate? It was long ago, you most likely do not remember. But one good turn certainly deserves another.” 

She patted his hand. 

“I wish I could...” his voice shook. “do something, _anything_ to help her!”

“You can,” she said, prompting a glance from Will. “You can ensure that her children are well, and let her marshal her strength without being taxed by caring for them. Look after your little one.”

The two midwives departed, giving Will instructions for tending to Sarah, and for the newborn. In their wake they left a quietude only broken by the tick-tick-tick of Mr. Southouse’s pocketwatch, and the merry chirping of two birds outside their bedroom window. 

William’s lips trembled. He turned to look down at Sarah, who in slumber seemed so far away.

“You are forever trying to leave me,” he whispered. “Whether it be Calais or Sussex...This time you have truly outdone yourself; that I will admit.”

Will huffed a mirthless laugh and sniffled, gazing down at the infant asleep on his chest. “But remember what it is that I always do. If you go, I must follow.”

He looked at her. “And I cannot this time. Not that playing Orpheus would be beyond what I would do for you. But because...” 

As if on cue, the child moved, gripping at the waistcoat with his tiny hand.

Will slid his forefinger into the infant’s grasp, uncurling the little fingers. His son’s hands were shaped uncannily like his own. But now he saw the patterns upon his palm were _hers_.

The child had Sarah’s lifelines. 

William’s gaze went Heavenward. Being raised by a clergyman was no assurance of piety; Will knew this from experience. But the prayers that filled his childhood swam in his memory now. If there was power to be had in it, surely it would be strongest on this, the most Holy of days. His recall was not as it had been when he made recitations in his father’s study, but some words he would not forget.

“My God, my God. Why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring? Oh my God, I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent...”

He stopped, and knew at once that it was wrong. That was a psalm for Good Friday. This day must not be filled with despair. He must not give into grief. If he reckoned correctly, the midwives were this day gone to celebrate the Parting of the Red Sea, and deliverance from captivity. So he prayed in their honor: 

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...”

Will dared not disturb the baby by retrieving the Bible, but let his memory carry him through “o ye gates” and “tender mercies,” proclaiming, “The Lord is my light and my salvation,” ending “Amen, Amen, I say to unto you, Amen.” His father had always said that God cared more for the sentiment behind the words than the perfection of the recitation. He hoped that it was true. 

He thought of Samuel, soon to return below to the apartments of Mr. and Mrs. Thwaite. Will knew he would need to collect him before the day was out, and tell him the news of his brother. But it would mean little to Sam. And William was certain that when he bent down to gather him up, the first word out of the little boy’s mouth would be, “Mama?” He would not be able to answer. How could he explain? 

“We need you back with us,” Will said, nodding. “Samuel will be impatient to show you the prizes he won. And this little one needs a name.”

“William.”

Sarah was gazing up at him, looking quite tired, but alert.

A sigh escaped his lips and he bent down to plant grateful kisses to her forehead, reveling in the warm puffs of breath against his neck, the fluttering of her lashes against his cheek. 

There were some moments where neither spoke, and the only sound to be heard was Will’s snuffling, as he said a prayer of thanksgiving, this time in silence. 

“I’d thought you dead.”

“So did I,” she said, then smiled. “But it is the best day for rising back to life, is it not?”

His face contorted with a mixture of sorrow and mirth. “If this was merely a passion play and not a genuine crisis, it was wicked of you to frighten me so.”

“Shall I remind you of the time when I was frightened for your life, and we spoke those very same words?” she said lightly, “Or when you lay beaten and bleeding not two feet from where I am now?”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, at least when I court danger, it is in service of a higher cause,” she said, closing her eyes, wearing a sly smile. “I am still owed one brush with death to pull even with you. And I believe Samuel has the better of us both in this contest.”

Will just shook his head. “By all means, I surrender. Do not trouble yourselves any further.” He looked down at the child in his arms, suddenly feeling too serious to continue this banter.

Sarah raised her fingers to stroke the baby’s back. “William. Of course that is what we shall call him.” 

He frowned, and took her hand. It was still cool, but not so much as it had been. “I would have you chose any other name you desire. Only...not William. Let him be called _Arthur_ before that.” 

Will had acquainted her with the history of his father, how Reverend David Garrow’s eldest son had been William, and his second, Edward. The firstbord had died. Another son was named William, and a fourth, Joseph. The second William had then also died. It was into these unhappy circumstances Will received his name, as the fifth son, but finally, the living namesake of his grandfather. For him, and for the two brothers he never met, he was glad to make William Garrow a name to be remembered. But it was too ill-fated a legacy to wish to pass on to his own son. 

Sarah cast her eyes down thoughtfully, then spoke. “Then we shall follow tradition, and name him not after his father, but yours.”

Will could not suppress his smile. He had long wished to do so, but it seemed eminently fitting in light of how much he was in his thoughts this day. Still, he wanted her to be happy with the choice. “Is it what you would like?”

“I think it sounds very well indeed. And it means ‘beloved,’ which perfectly expresses my feeling on the subject,” Sarah said, caressing her baby’s bare arm, her eyes never leaving his face. “What do you think of that, David? Shall our little Easter chick have a name at last?” 

Her hand came to rest on Will’s waistcoat pocket and she paused. “What is this?” 

“Oh.” He’d almost forgotten about his impulsive purchase two days prior. It seemed woefully inadequate now, and he shrugged apologetically. “It’s nothing…a trifle.”

But he took it out of his pocket and handed it to Sarah, and she sat up, unwrapping it from the brown paper with a sparkle in her eyes that stood out all the more in her blanched face.

Out came a silver locket, inlayed with filigree on its face, hanging from a scarlet ribbon Samuel had chosen. The sage green seemed a far better choice now.

“Oh Will.”

“It’s gilding the lily. I would have gotten you pearls if I could --”

“No, it’s beautiful,” she said, opening the clasp. Something fell from inside onto the bedspread.

“It’s Samuel’s,” he said, as she picked up the dark braided curl with a questioning look. “I had thought to put a lock of the baby’s hair inside…” he said, gazing warmly at David’s calvous head, “but it appears he’s thwarted me in that.”

She smiled. “We must hope he’ll have some eventually. In the meantime, I shall require a lock of yours to put next to it. Now hand me our little chick, and fetch Samuel, for I do believe I hear him and the Thwaite children thundering up the stairs as we speak.” 

Will’s reluctance to leave Sarah and David was such that even venturing down to the next landing was seen as a great undertaking. But he was eventually persuaded to take the risk, and he rushed past the beribboned christening pillow that now hung on their door. Young Maria Thwaite had fashioned it, with pins spelling out the sentiment:

“May He whose cradle  
Was a manger  
Bless and protect  
This little stranger”

William expressed the appropriate admiration for the girl’s accomplishments, thanked Mrs. Thwaite for watching Sam, and accepted their congratulations, while remaining vague in response to their questions. A boy, and healthy. Yes, she was sitting up and very desirous of seeing Samuel. 

Will brought him back into their apartments, whispering in his ear about what he was about to witness. The child put his finger to his lips and stared ahead in hushed awe, seeming to understand the solemnity of the occasion. 

Mindful of its creaking waking the infant, William slowly opened the bedroom door.

“Here they are,” he whispered

Sarah looked up from the bundle in her arms. “Hello my treasure,” she said, beaming at her firstborn.

Samuel was silent for a moment, and then, with a relieved sigh of “Mama!” he leaned forward and held out his arms to her.

“Would you like to see your new brother?” Will asked.

Samuel nodded, and Will set him down on the bed.

Samuel stretched across his mother’s lap and peered into the cocoon of blankets that held David. His mouth dropped open and he gasped. Raising his head, he looked to Will, then to Sarah, and a smile slowly spread across his features. He pointed at the babe’s face, and met Will’s gaze once more, his finger still indicating the sleeping newborn in his mother’s arms.

“Baby...” he said in amazement.

“Yes, dearest. Remember what we told you about Mama’s belly?”

He sat and thought on that for a few moments. Then he lifted the bedclothes, peering under them at Sarah’s midsection. Whether this was meant to confirm his parent’s explanation, or to investigate the possibility that there might be additional infants secreted there, they knew not. They both just laughed, and he righted up, a finger to his lips, looking embarrassed. David startled briefly at the noise. 

“Never mind, Samuel,” Sarah said, dropping her voice to a whisper, and kissing him on his curly head. She met Will’s gaze. “Now. Shall we have Papa join us, do you think?”

Sam gave an enthusiastic nod and moved closer to his mother, making room for William to sit beside him. 

Before moving to the bed to complete the picture of domestic bliss, Will allowed himself a moment to relish the scene as it was. 

Sarah looked up. “What are you waiting for, William?” she asked invitingly.

“Nothing,” he said with a shake of his head. “I am merely counting my blessings.” 

He smiled.

“Amen”


End file.
